


Sweet Hatchet Of Mine

by FloodFeSTeR



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clothing Kink, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Thoughts, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time (sort of), Gang Violence, Inappropriate Humor, Kink Exploration, Loss of Virginity, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Strip Tease, Teasing, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloodFeSTeR/pseuds/FloodFeSTeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe going after Matt Miller piss drunk and angry wasn't the best plan, but how was I to know this shit would happen? </p><p>:: Slow Burn; low key Fem!Boss/Angel, but really Fem!Boss/MattMiller ::</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Hatchet Of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is already posted by ItsHarleyBitch over on FanFiction.net but she doesn't like the formatting over here so I told her I'd post this here and add in the smut she wanted. So this might take a minute to update, but that depends on how fast she updates her stuff.

"God _dammit_ ," I hissed, fingers curling around the edge of the cushion I was seated on.

Angel looked up at me from under that heavy brow and he raised his left eyebrow, looking like he wanted to say something mocking. I scowled and he actually chuckled, continuing to wipe away the blood from my right leg. That just made me want to punch him even more, if you could believe it.

He could have at least warned me, gave me a heads up, that I would be driving around a tiger. _A fucking tiger_. A fucking tiger that was watching us closely from this dirty mattress with almost kitten-like curiosity.

And to think, I used to like cats.

"Training," Angel repeated for the up-teenth time.

"A _fucking_ tiger," I growled.

"Don't lose the message in the method."

I just rolled my eyes and shifted my hands back a little more, cringing as he wiped away blood from a particularly gnarly scratch. The beast hadn't gotten me that bad, it was obviously trained for small wounds (though what counts as small to me is questionable to most). Still, it could have done alot fucking worse.

"Thanks for helping me with my leg," I muttered, watching his hands tape off the gauze, suddenly feeling sheepish.

He paused in rolling down my pants leg, looked up at me, full faced. I smiled a little and he opened his mouth to speak. I was eager too, eager to hear whatever it was he needed - wanted - to tell me. And then my phone decided to go off. We stared at each other for a minute and then I sighed, pushing myself forward to get my phone from the holder clipped to my waist; not like this skirt had pockets.

"Hey Zimos," I muttered, watching Angel stalk towards that blasted tiger.

" _You called_ ," auto-tune sounds terrible through the phone.

"Yeah, I was -"

"Why don't ya head on ova."

I sighed, standing on shaky, sore legs; they threatened to give out any minute. And I couldn't blame them because the past few days - training with Angel, grabbing hos for Zimos - I had really worn myself ragged with no down time. I grabbed my heels from where Angel had set them and paused in the middle of the casino floor, itching to snap at Zimos because Angel was staring at me again and Christ. . .

"Sure," I hung up before he could and waved back at Angel as I headed for the door. "I'll catch you later, Angel."

He didn't even look up, didn't wave back at me. Just kept his eyes down. And that irked me for some reason. But I brushed it off, hopped in my car and set my GPS for Zimos' crib.

I shouldn't be bothered by Angel acting like that, all aloof and shit but dammit he was cute. I wanted to talk to Shaundi about it but she was so fucking angry right now. She was no help - of course I couldn't tell her that, because then she'd get up in my face and I would have to clock her and - it just wasn't a good idea. You'd think killing that fuck Loren would have at least curbed her but Killbane fucked up Johnny's funeral just as she was coming down. The most infuriating thing about that big fucker was that he didn't realize (care) that I was now stuck with a perpetually angry Shaundi. I could handle a fucked funeral but her stomping around the penthouse was too much.

I raised an eyebrow as I stepped out of my car, eyeing the scuffed bubbles against a backdrop of purple. Carwash? Yeah, sure. Well, Zimos did have the girls actually wash cars, if to just keep it on the down low I suppose, but we all knew what was going on.

I parked the car in the garage, not trusting a soul outside that rickety, metal door. Nice car, Attrazione in Saints colors. It stood out like a sore thumb, and the cops here sure loved to impound our cars or the thieves liked the way it looked.

I reached for the door handle to Zimos' pad, gasping and curling my arm back as pain shot up from my gut to my shoulder. It wasn't a high level of pain, but it was enough for me to be cautious as I flexed my arm. I was so going to get Angel back for that tiger shit, what if it fucked my nerves up? I had some. . .lets be honest, freakishly wicked healing properties going on, but nerve damage still affected several points on my body.

I shook my head, flexing my arm again as I opened the door; no pain, I could handle it now. Two flights of stairs (accompanied by the smell of motor oil and a few garbage bags) later and I was biting my tongue at the decor. Bright colors and shag everywhere. Fur In My Cap played lowly through speakers running over the ceiling; I refrained from touching the blow up giraffe as I rounded the corner into the living room. I wouldn't admit to the fetish I had with toys; nothing kinky, I just still had a bed full of stuffed animals.

"Hey Zimos -"

"Ssh," he hissed. "Don't wake the bitches."

I smirked as he pat the head of a half naked blonde to his right; I shook my head at the girl dressed as an Angel he was leaning back on. This wasn't the first time I had walked in on the exact same (well, not the same. Different bitches.) scene and I had an odd twinge of deja vu go through my gut to accompany the dull pain radiating from somewhere in my pelvis.

"Keep em busy, don't cha," I chuckled.

"Ain't no slackin in my carwash," he seemed to grin before brushing his thumb against his right nostril and inhaling sharply (not to mention noisily). "Had some of them Deckers drop some shit off here."

I tensed up, dropping my hands just to curl them into fists at my side. He pointed at the couch to my right and I reluctantly looked, seeing a small black box sitting on one of the cushions. It was more plain than I expected from him. I picked it up, hands shaky; black, neon blue at the very edges, most likely done by hand if I was gonna be honest. He sure put his time into aesthetics associated with him, which was something I admired - don't tell anyone!

"Think it's a bomb," I muttered, shaking it near my ear.

"If so, you're not helpin it," Zimos snarked and I glared, but he was right.

"Right," I groaned slumping down onto the couch.

I glared at the box in my lap, my fingers pressing into the flimsy cardboard. It wasn't even taped up. I pulled back the flaps, my breath strangely hitching as my fingers brushed over the soft fabric of my black and blue flannel. I reached in, lifting it with both hands and almost tried to smother myself with it.

It smelt like him.

I opened my eyes, though I don't remember closing them, and catch Zimos giving me a disapproving look - Zimos, of all people. I hesitate and then shake my head, reach for the envelope in the bottom of the box. I dropped the shirt back into the box and open the envelope, reading sloppy handwriting; you'd think a 'genius' like him would have better handwriting.

"He said he's sorry," my brow furrows; a tiny voice in the back of my head says I should be the one apologizing, though I don't understand why.

Zimos snorts and I want to do the same, but all that happens is my lips twitch in the corners and I vomit onto the cushion beside me, promptly waking the bitches and making me hold my queasy stomach.

"Zimos," I mutter and he's right there, ever faithful. "Call Pierce. . ."


End file.
